Memory of a Waltz
by MistressMine
Summary: One-shot. Austria recalls the glitter of the past and lets it rest in peace. AusxHun.


Unathletic intellectual though he is, Austria is a phenomenal dancer. His ear for music helps. Keeping time with a metronome is no different than keeping time with one's feet, he feels. That his extended family has such abysmal skills in this area is a constant source of embarrassment. After all, it's only a simple matter of memorization and precise execution—one would think they could manage that. In centuries past, he could spin a woman in an eight-foot crinoline across a ballroom not only without stepping on her dress, but with an ease and grace unmatched in Vienna—perhaps in all of Europe. It took practice, of course. It took care and effort like anything worth doing right did, and while he was praised mostly for his musical prowess, this "secret weapon of social diplomacy" had served him better than some treaties, or indeed, some marriages.

But that . . . that had been years ago.

He indulges in music now more than dance. Music can largely be accomplished by oneself. Dancing is much more fulfilling with a partner, and he lives alone now though he does not mind the solitude so much as he minds the emptiness. It's a nice mansion, because of course it is, but it is rather quiet now.

Hungary had preferred the liveliness of folk dances to the regimented, "proper" ballroom styles, but he had eventually convinced her to learn them anyway. Austria did not consider himself a sentimental, but he was sure that they had once covered the entirety of the grandest ballroom in Budapest, just the two of them, wheeling in a waltz.

But when had that been? The 1860s—when their union was suddenly new again? The 1890s—when for a moment it felt like it might go on forever? Or the early 1910s—right before it all began to finally fall apart? He has forgotten.

Sometimes, on nights when sleep is hard to find, he numbly walks through his mansion, listening to the curious silence, pushes open the double doors to the ballroom and stares into the hollow, dark space beyond as though to check that it is still there.

It is so strange, standing there in the dark, to imagine the room as it had been, glimmering, alive with movement, intrigue, and pleasure, lit by hundreds of candles, soaring music swelling to fill every corner.

He sighs. _Where does the time go . . ?_

If he focuses hard enough he can almost hear the rustle of heavy skirts, the delicate tapping of ladies' shoes on the tile, the bubbling of tipsy conversation, all caught up in the breathless hush before a horn blared or a flurry of violins sent everyone into the arms of their partners.

Yes, he can _almost _hear it. But the memory is ephemeral and floats away from him even as his mind reaches out for it, grasps at it, willing it to return.

Because, of course, those days are over. And even so, he has no right to feel nostalgic. For all the glories of that age there were just as many tragedies. And yet . . .

Hungary had looked so well in her diamonds. He had had the pieces made especially for her for their thirty-year anniversary—a demi parure of diamonds, rubies, and emeralds in gold floral settings. She only wore it once—jewelry was not her accessory of choice—to the ball that had been held in their honor. And oh, to see such a beautiful thing adorn such a beautiful woman was worth ten times the cost of the gems.

Did she still have it somewhere, locked up tight in its case? Probably not. Probably, it had long since gone the way of their imperial days—dashed to pieces in one war or another.

Oh, well. Ages roll. Things move on.

He could host a party if he really wants to, if he feels like spending the money, if he feels like inviting _everyone_ so there won't be the chance of an international incident—then again, that might still be a problem either way. He could open up the ballroom again, have it aired out, cleaned, shined, and done up. He could.

But he won't.

It's not really a ballroom anymore—not to him. It's a mausoleum, a resting place for memories of a time whose rules and morays seem almost incomprehensible now. He will let them lie in their gilded cavern, let them be at peace undisturbed by _the now_.


End file.
